


Only if for a night

by piggy09



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Orphan Black spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:56:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you wake up sweating, shaking like earthquake tremors. You are alone, and you can hear her voice in the creaking of your bed, and you are alone, and you need desperately to hear her voice one last time.</p><p>When that happens you slip out of the bedcovers and shiver as sweat cools on your skin and your feet touch the cold ground. You are all over corpse-cold; you are haunting your own halls, a pitiful sort of ghost. Your hands always shake when they reach for the phone on your bedside table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only if for a night

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Tumblr user delphinated:  
> "This goes with the fic war thingy alright? A desperate Delphine calls a dead Cosima's phone just to hear her voice on the voice mail. Just WRITE IT! I thought this up ages ago, just didn't have enough guts to write it."
> 
> [whispers] aaangsssssst

You still remember the way her voice had creaked at the end. The _end_ , which you cannot say without your breath stuttering in some sort of twisted mockery of hers. Even your body wants to keep her alive, even if you can only do it by breaking yourself in identical ways.

And oh, she was broken, curled in on herself on the edge of her bed. It had always dwarfed her but as she was, dwindled to skin and bones, she was drowning in it. Her hand had trembled on your face. _Hey, Delphine_ , she’d said, her voice crackling like static on a frequency you couldn’t quite reach. You put your hand over hers. _Hey, ma cherie_ , you whispered back.

Her laughter was a painful thing. _It sounds weird when you say_ hey _,_ she said intently, her eyes still clear behind the glasses she had refused to remove. _Not_ – she coughed, splattering the world with red. _Not – French enough_.

 _My apologies,_ you murmured, your fingers rubbing over hers. _I will do my best to be more French in the future._

 _Good,_ she murmured back, and then her eyelids fluttered closed.

…That wasn’t the last time you spoke to her. Some things will always be just yours and hers.

When you dream of her (you cannot stop dreaming of her), her voice is cracked and rusted, shedding dried blood like old metal would. You cannot escape her sickness even in your dreaming. You do not remember what her voice sounded like, before. (The clear definition: before. after. end. End, end, end. The rest of your life is only an epilogue to hers.)

Sometimes you wake up sweating, shaking like earthquake tremors. You are alone, and you can hear her voice in the creaking of your bed, and you are alone, and you need desperately to hear her voice one last time.

When that happens you slip out of the bedcovers and shiver as sweat cools on your skin and your feet touch the cold ground. You are all over corpse-cold; you are haunting your own halls, a pitiful sort of ghost. Your hands always shake when they reach for the phone on your bedside table. You have learned to adjust after the first time it fell to the floor and cracked. It shattered the night silence, and you could not call up any ghosts after that.

You have learned. Your fingers are practiced on the keys, shaking as they are. You imagine the oil of your fingers wearing out the buttons, leaving evidence of this nightly ritual for anyone to see. It’s hard to decide if the idea is pleasing, or—

 _Hey, it’s Cosima_.

or—

 _I’m probably doing something really awesome and scientific right now,_ [muffled laughter]

whether

_but I’ll get back to you soon as I can._

it’s

_…Probably. Possibly. Maaaybe._

just

_Leave a message anyways. We’ll talk._

sad.

_Promise._

[beep]

The air fills with a quiet, hissing static. The space around you is even emptier than it was before, cold and still.

You’ve closed your eyes at some point. You open them mechanically and wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. The seconds tick by on the screen of your phone – _11\. 12. 13._

In one quick movement, you hurl your phone against the wall. It splinters into a million glittering pieces, but you can’t hear it under the tortured sound of your own voice.

“ _Tu avais promis!_ ” you are screaming, your whole body shaking. The sheets are straining under your white knuckles. “ _Tu m'avais promis, Cosima!_ ”

As soon as it comes, your anger leaves. You hunch over yourself on the edge of your bed. Your shoulders shake with sobs. Across the room your phone lies on the ground, shattered. Broken.

It is like looking in a mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> And I heard your voice  
> As clear as day  
> And you told me I should concentrate  
> It was all so strange  
> And so surreal  
> That a ghost should be so practical  
> Only if for a night
> 
> And the only solution was to stand and fight  
> And my body was bruised and I was set alight  
> But you came over me like some holy rite  
> And although I was burning, you're the only light  
> Only if for a night  
> \--"Only If For A Night," Florence + the Machine


End file.
